


The Heart of Sherlock Holmes

by LauramourFromOz



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Big Finish Audio), Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: LGBTQ Themes, M/M, The Strand, lgbtq+
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29169648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LauramourFromOz/pseuds/LauramourFromOz
Summary: The greatest adventure of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Told in three acts. To be published posthumously in The Strand.Published from the archive for the first time 30th November 1992. The centenary of Oscar Wilde's death.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	The Heart of Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this after binge listening to Big Finish Sherlock Holmes audios on the bus for ten hours or so. Somehow a Dorian Gray got mixed somewhere and this happened.

The loyal reader will know that, in relation to my friend, it is not often I discuss matters of the heart. It has been some years since I first began to write this and this is perhaps the fifth or sixth iteration of it. I feel I have a little leeway to explain this publication as it's posthumous.

It all began in December of 1892. This, as the keen observer will be aware, falls in the time between Holmes' disappearance (and presumed death) at Richenbach and his return. During this time (unbeknown to everyone except his late elder brother Mycroft, including myself) Holmes was busy dismantling the criminal network left behind by Professor James Moriarty.

Mycroft was of great comfort to me during this time, which I look back on as the worst years of my life, including my time in Afghanistan. It was amid this period of deep despair that I learned of the death in exile of our dear friend Oscar. It had been some years since I'd seen him myself but I later found out that Sherlock had seen him in his last days in Paris. We had dined at The Savoy together shortly before his arrest and incarceration.

It was in memory of Oscar and of Sherlock that I resolved to tell this, all together different, story. Here in the pages of The Strand I tell the story in death that I never could in life. Our family lines have reached their inevitable conclusions and there is nobody left for our story to disgrace. Nobody left for the scandal to harm.

I am not as brave as Oscar and so I have left instructions for this to be published after the deaths of both myself and Holmes.

There has been much speculation over the years as to the precise nature of the relationship between myself and that shining star that is the incomparable Sherlock Holmes. My complete affection towards him has been evident since my missives first graced the pages of The Strand. What may not be as evident but is nonetheless the case is Holmes's reciprocation. We have, as the astute reader may have gathered by this point, been romantically attached for most of our acquaintance.

Whilst I, as a soldier in Afghanistan, had gained some experience of a romantic and sexual nature with both sexes, Holmes had not. For reasons I do not fully comprehend, I have been the only one to ever pique his interest in that regard.

I have been singularly privileged to know the heart of Sherlock Holmes.

I suppose it all happened in three acts.

* * *

**_ Act One: Pre-Reichenbach _ **

I don't recall exactly the point when our relationship passed beyond profound friendship. That, I suppose is the best foundation for a romantic relationship. I have never had a preference for either gender. In Afghanistan it was men and in Britain it was women because that seemed the done thing. I'd gained a reputation in the army for having a woman in every port, three continents Watson they called me. I has always been more to do with the person than the plumbing for me. that and convenience, the desire to feel something other than the sensation of being shot at or worse. We'd have all gone mad over there otherwise.

That was how this thing between us started. It was nervous energy and Sherlock's racing mind, lightning quick. I kissed him one day because his exquisite mind was racing faster than even he could keep up with it. It had surprised both of us when it worked.

I like kissing Sherlock. He'd probably berate me for being fanciful (and he often has) when I say it's like we have been designed to fit exactly together. He's reading this over my shoulder with a fond smile and a very specific look in his eye that only I can read. He agrees with me, though he'll never admit it.

I don't recall the point when this transitioned to a more conventional relationship. We spent all our time running around the countryside kissing and solving mysteries.

I was married during this period, for appearances more so than anything. I was a good and dutiful husband and Sherlock and I did less of the kissing while we solved crimes the length and breath of Europe while I was married.

That fateful adventure which culminated in Sherlock's disappearance and apparent death began a shift we had scarcely seen one another in several months. I was occupied with married life and he with dismantling Moriarty's criminal enterprise.

He came to me, as I have recounted before, one evening after an altercation with one of Moriarty's roughians. His knuckles were split and bloodied, as was his lip and eyebrow. He sat closer to me than was strictly necessary and allowed me to dab at his wounds as he caught me up on his recent exploits and then the plan going foreword. He leaned into my touch as I tended his wounds. It was as if he knew the events that were about to unfold. He claims to have thought up the plan in the time it took Moriarty to reach the water below. And I believe it of him, to a point but I also believe he was well aware of the possibility of his death.

** _Act Two: Post-Reichenbach_ **

Soon after Sherlock's presumed death, I was widowed. Between the loss of my dearest friend and my wife, I was wretched, utterly overcome by a grief from which I thought I would never recover. Then Sherlock returned and I was so overcome that, for the one and only time in my life, I literally fainted. Once Colonel Moran, Moriarty's right hand man and the last of the network to be taken down, as safely n the custody of Inspector Lestrade we took some brief rest-bite and I moved back into our Baker Street rooms.

Holmes' time away had changed him somewhat. He was still the same man who I'd left on the path that fateful day. There was a little of the young man I'd first met at Bart's all those years ago too. He was thin and pale and seemed to have fallen into old habits. I'd forgotten just how much he'd improved by way of looking after himself since I'd known him but I was reminded of it now. He certainly wasn't eating properly and he had probably been doing more opium and morphine (and goodness knows what else) than was good for him. The years we'd been apart had been hard on him too, I could tell. I flatter myself that he'd felt my absence as a missing limb as I had his. I'd spent the few preceding years feeling as if the lion's share of everything good about my person had gone over the falls with Holmes. His personality had smoothed out somewhat. His between case catatonic quiet and explosive firework dichotomy and mellowed. He had become content spending the evening in quiet companionship. Perhaps out of his sense of accomplishment from crowning his career with the dissolution of Moriarty's web, perhaps he had simply come to appreciate quiet companionship in our time apart. He had even postponed taking on cases in favour of keeping our plans. On one occasion he had turned a case away until morning in favour of an anticipated dinner and trip to the opera.

He was more attentive than he'd ever been. Even though he rarely slept while on s case, he almost always came to bed with me, and if he didn't he was sure to be there when I woke up. When I asked him about it he said:

"My dear fellow, I will never be able to make what you went through these last years up o you if we live another hundred years."

I wasn't sure what to say to that. I knew that his actions had caused him as much heartache as they had caused me. Eventually I found the words to tell him so.

** _Act Three: Retirement_ **

As I write this, Holmes and I are as retired as we shall ever get. We seed most of our time in the countryside. I have opened a small medical practice, for which the local inhabitants are grateful. Holmes spends his days raising bees. We aren't a active as we used to be and, I fear all the honey is making me little soft around the middle. We keep our rooms in Baker Street in case someone is in need of our services... or if there's something good on at the theatre. You have, no doubt read of some of our future adventures already.

And so, loyal reader, this is where I leave you with the greatest adventure Holmes and I have ever been on together.

When you look back at our other adventures, as I flatter myself you will, think of us looking down from our Baker Street window, Holmes's arms around my middle, chin rested on my shoulder, or the top of my head, contentedly as we watch the street below. Picture a private smile. Picture heads rested on shoulders on long train journeys and arms draped over seat backs. See two people who would follow one another into the very bowels of hell without a second thought.

And so, I suppose, all that is left to say, from Sherlock and myself: Thank you for joining us on our adventures.

_Dr John H. Watson & Sherlock Holmes_


End file.
